


A Place to Call Ours

by avid75



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Pregnancy, Romance, Shameless Smut, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avid75/pseuds/avid75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which, in sudden moment of clarity, Owen Sleater realizes he’s marching to his death in New York and does something about it. Margaret, after a period of doubt and determination, makes her way to him. The start a life together, and one day at last they receive closure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Margaret

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the fix-it I was threatening to write every time a Boardwalk Empire GIF set crossed my path on Tumblr. ;) There are definitely four chapters to this, and the first one came out much longer than I anticipated; I know where this is going, though, so hopefully it won't take forever to complete. There's explicit material all the way through, but I probably won't change the rating until we get to Chapter 3. (Yeah, I've got _plans_...) Un-beta'ed so I welcome any and all feedback!
> 
> BTW, in the form of a teaser, here are the four chapter titles in advance... 
> 
> Chapter 1: Margaret  
> Chapter 2: Owen  
> Chapter 3: Mr. & Mrs. Murphy  
> Chapter 4: Home

_Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Indianapolis, St. Louis._

That was the route. Altogether, amounting to nearly 24 hours of travel. With two small children – one in leg braces – in close quarters, potentially under duress of being removed from their very comfortable home and all their playthings. It made Margaret _terribly_ uneasy, uncertain as she was of how the children would cope with yet another sudden and irrevocable uprooting.

Months and months of encouragement to consider Enoch as their father. And then the marriage. And in spite of the continued status quo wherein his business came first – frequently at the detriment of his health and mental well being – there was a corner of Margaret’s heart that knew well enough that Enoch did care for her little ones. A great deal.

How would they react to this? What kind of questions would she have to endure while they were cooped up in a train car hurtling toward a city – a state, a region no less – that none of them had never seen?

What were they doing this for? Was it truly because however comfortable it is in most respects, this was no life in which to raise children – including the one she was carrying now? And because they all deserved a chance to live an honest life that will mean something?

Or was she doing this because she couldn’t bear the thought of living one more minute without him? Without being near him, always? Without the pulsing heat in her veins when he looked at her, and the drunken desire she felt when she tasted his lips? Without the uninhibited, heart-stopping intimacy they shared, which she’d never remotely experienced with any other man? And would he live up to his promises? Did Owen really want to abandon this life, too? Could he make the sacrifices she’d ask of him? Did really he want her, and the children… and their baby?

Was she being brave and determined? Or selfish and naïve?

All of this preyed upon Margaret’s mind as she rose that morning at the hotel, as she brushed her hair while the sun streamed through the sheer curtains, while she put on her face. Selected a demure mauve dress, a single strand of pearls. Dabbed at her pulse points with very expensive French perfume.

Her first indication that something was radically amiss was Nucky’s voice booming from behind the closed door of her room. Shouting at Eddie Kessler.

“What the fuck do you MEAN he just disappeared?!”

“He is nowhere to be found. He was on the train to New York City, and he was last seen in the evening but… no one has seen him since. Mr. Masseria is alive and …”

“Sawicki?!”

“He waited for hours outside the bath house, he was concerned that if he left Mr. Sleater would arrive and their cover would be blown ...”

“Listen, someone somewhere saw that wise-assed, no-good little Mick after he left my sight, I want that person FOUND and they’re going to personally answer my fucking questions, is that clear?”

Margaret realized she’d been slowly stepping backward from the door only when her thighs bumped into the bench at her vanity; she tipped backward onto the seat and stared at the fine, highly polished floor.

_Owen had disappeared._

But he hadn’t completed the job he was sent to do.  Had someone gotten to him first? Or …did he just leave? Was he lying to her this _entire_ time?

As though it were sheer reflex, a survival instinct she had learned to hone ever more cunningly each year, Margaret made no indication as she emerged from her room that she was in any kind of distress. Mr. Kessler had departed, and Nucky – his face red and his forehead beaded with sweat – began composing himself the moment he saw her enter the front room of their suite.  Margaret presented him with a relaxed smile, kissing him on the cheek; secretly, she clenched her teeth as she walked to the children’s room to help them dress for breakfast.

Nucky did not join them for the meal, as such; he stood at the window, staring intensely out at the road below while he sipped a cup of black coffee. There were two men standing at the windows nearby, one near the table and one closer to the front door; their intent was concealed from the children, but Margaret was well aware they were armed. She didn’t know either of their names. The man nearer to them continually reached under his jacket as though he needed to be reminded his gun was at his immediate disposal. Teddy asked for a second helping of bacon, and Emily drew figure-eights in her oatmeal with her spoon until admonished by her mother. Her plate untouched until that moment, Margaret took a single bite of scrambled eggs and immediately felt nauseous.

_Maybe this was his plan all along. An excuse to skip town. Perhaps he instructed Katy to meet him and they took flight the moment they had an opportunity to do so…_

“I want you and the children to leave,” Nucky said. Margaret spluttered on a sip of juice. She was startled, and in truth somewhat appalled, that he was addressing this issue in front of Teddy and Emily.

“Is that right?” she asked. “Where might I ask are we… visiting?” Every turn of phrase in this instance was important.

“It may be high time for the children to meet your family, maybe a week or two in Brooklyn would be just the thing.” He did not move from his watch at the window. Margaret had never told him the condition under which she’d left her family following a visit last year; that she was no longer welcome wasn’t something she wanted to share then, and certainly not now.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she sniffed.

“You have family in… where is Brooklyn?” Teddy asked.

“It’s in New York City, love,” Margaret answered, smoothing the hair at her son’s crown.  “And we should pack our things soon, so finish up.”

Nucky was in deep conversation with Eddie Kessler upon his return, and both Teddy and Emily suddenly became remarkably animated at the thought of visiting New York City. They took rapidly to deciding which of their most prized possessions would be coming with them on the trip, when a knock at the door brought an unexpected telegram addressed to Margaret.

To Margaret Thompson, from Eamonn Rohan. Stunningly prescient given the recent discussion, not to mention utterly implausible. And then she read it.

NOT EAMONN, it read. THERE WILL BE TALK. I AM ALRIGHT, PLAN HAS CHANGED. REPLY C/O EMMETT KELLY, 810 BRANCH STREET, ST. LOUIS. WAIT FOR ME PEG. EVER YOURS, O.

An hour later, a taxi arrived to take her and the children to the train station. Before they boarded for New York, though she’d never smoked in her life, Margaret walked into the tobbaconist’s shop and asked for a single matchbook. While Teddy minded Emily directly outside the doorway to the women’s lavatory, Margaret set fire to Owen’s telegram and let it burn until the flames nearly lapped at her fingertips, dropping it into the toilet and flushing it away.

She then walked to the Western Union office and sent a message back to the address, which she’d memorized:

BOUND FOR BROOKLYN, ADDRESS TO FOLLOW. WE ARE SAFE. NOT SAFE IN NJ, FOR ANYONE. PLEASE TAKE CARE, A RÚNSEARC. M.

_He was alive._

\-----------

“I take back what I said to you before, missus,” Owen said, biting his lip. “I take it back utterly. You’re not a cool one at all. You run hotter than a furnace, you do.”

Moments earlier they were feverishly making love, and now they were splayed out across Margaret’s bed. Owen propped up with pillows against the headboard; Margaret lay with her head on a velvet pillow roll, toward the foot of the bed in a relaxed sprawl between his spread legs, where she’d keeled over after reaching her climax and toppling backward. It was two nights since their tryst in the greenhouse. Nucky was still in Washington, D.C.; with the children and the help asleep, the concentrated effort of enjoying her lover completely while keeping quiet enough to remain a secret had been thrilling but exhausting.

“I don’t want you to call me “missus” anymore,” Margaret informed him.

He leaned forward, enveloping her ankle in his warm, strong hand and lifting her foot to rest on his bare thigh. The muscle beneath his skin flexed on impact; with the pads of two fingers, he gently stroked her instep. Forward, and back...

"Well, I am still yours to command, so... tell me what suits you."

Her eyes closed, lulled as she was by the sweetness of his touch, Margaret's lip curled impishly. "Are you, now?"; she folded both arms upward behind her head, arching her back just the slightest bit. The sensation of being exposed, of knowing she could tip her breasts skyward as Owen was raking his eyes over every inch of her body,  what that would do to him... and not feeling the slightest bit ashamed for it. Heaven help her, but she could get used to this feeling.

"Completely." Owen's voice was deep and desirous; she swallowed hard, a pang of arousal spreading out from her belly toward her legs, and she opened her eyes to see that dazzling smile.

" _Completely_ mine. _No one else's_?" She emphasized the last three words for all the implications therein; raising herself up on her elbows Margaret lifted her leg, pointing her toes toward the thick nest of hair at Owen's groin; the noise that emanated from his throat was halfway between ticklishness and titillation. His mouth in an open pout, his breathing grew shallow as Margaret nudged his bollocks with her toes, then the root of his cock... she licked her bottom lip as she relished the heat of his body, pressing up, up with her toes and the ball of her foot through the soft, dark pelt covering his stomach, and across his chest.

"If you'll have me," he sighed. "Would you have me as I am?" Owen lifted her leg high, kissing her arch, and her heel; Margaret’s hand flew up to her face and she bit down on one knuckle as he continued, his tongue curling around her big toe.

“I can be good,” he panted, licking her ankle bone, scoring her calf with his teeth. The wind whistled in the big red oak outside the window, leaves rustling just under the ragged sound of her breath as Owen’s kisses lingered longer, traveled higher along her legs. Suddenly, a creak of bed springs and a flush of soft, furred heat against her body and he was upon her.

“I’ve naught to give you but my heart, Margaret,” he said, thumbing her chin. “But I’ll build castles with my bare hands for you.” There was no smirk, no cheeky inflection in his voice. She had no reason not to believe him.

“Peg,” she whispered. Owen’s eyebrows knitted and she palmed his chest, caressing up the column of his throat and lifting her head to nibble along his jaw line. She continued: “My family, they called me Peg.” A joyful exhalation followed, and she could feel him smile against her temple.

“Will you have me as I am, then? _Peg?_ ”

 He cradled her neck, lowering her into the cushions as she answered with a passionate, prolonged kiss. When she pulled away, Owen followed hungrily, the tip of his tongue chasing her lips. Margaret groped his shoulder, pressing down gently.

“I’ll have you this instant,” she commanded, sliding the pillow roll under her back. “Put your mouth on me.”  She never had to ask twice. She only had to try, again - her fists balling up the sheets, tugging at his hair - to keep the sound of her ecstasy from waking the entire house.

\-----------------

A week after they left Atlantic City, Margaret and the children were living in a modest boarding house in Brooklyn. One room, from which they’d rarely emerged, spending most of their time around the lone table, a mother instructing her children in their studies with what few means were available on short notice. (A handful of books, some paper and pencils.)

 She awoke late one night while the children slept at her side; her skin clammy and chilled, she sat upright and immediately a queasy wave overwhelmed her with no warning. Margaret bolted out of bed, barely making it to the shared lavatory in time to vomit into the sink. For several minutes, she stood as the tap ran and washed away the evidence of her pregnancy. When she emerged into the hallway, Nucky was there.

“Just another week or two,” he attempted to assure her. “I need to be sure it’s safe for you to come back, but in the meantime… please. Take it. And for god’s sake, use it, find a better place. I understand wanting to be thorough, but you don’t need to hide this well.”  He handed Margaret a neatly folded stack of cash; wanting nothing more than for him to leave immediately with as little incident as possible, she silently accepted it. For his part, Nucky did not appear concerned that she did not kiss him goodbye.

Two more weeks passed. When Margaret was pregnant with Teddy, it was a solid three months before her belly began to show; with Emily it was much sooner, just over nine weeks. She was keenly aware that at any moment, the day would come when she could no longer conceal her condition under loose-waisted dresses and layered clothing.

THE GIFT CANNOT BE CONCEALED FOR LONG, her next telegram read. AT THE MOMENT, WE ARE NO ONE’S FIRST CONCERN. WILL NOT REMAIN LIKE THIS. IT MUST BE SOON.

Another four days passed. Emily asked for her “father” four times while they practiced her mobility together, and sobbed gently when Margaret could not assure her that “Daddy” would come and visit them soon. Worrying her thumb across the girl’s small, knobby knee, Margaret cuddled her daughter and wished for nothing more than the ability to smash things and scream.

The next day, a response arrived. Along with a wire transfer to cover three train fares to St. Louis.

YOU ARE MY FIRST CONCERN. TRAIN TO PHIL. THURSDAY 10:15AM. SENDING A FRIEND TO HELP YOU MANAGE. SOON. I LOVE YOU, PEG.

She realized she should be more concerned with gathering the children, preparing them for the idea of a long journey. Explaining why yet again they were moving, and to what ends. And wondering just who this friend was that he was sending to meet them and help her, though she supposed he should be commended for not expecting her to cope alone.

But the constant refrain repeating in Margaret’s head was _I love you… I love you… I love you…_

“Mama, your face is red like an apple,” Emily tittered. Margaret felt comforted, through and through - but still, he had some brass saying that to her for the first time in a telegram and not to her face.

Thursday morning, she and her children left Brooklyn for Manhattan, to Pennsylvania Station and boarded the 10:15am train to Philadelphia. Destination, St. Louis. Before they reached the platform, Margaret kept fifty dollars for the journey and dropped the remaining two-hundred and fifty of Nucky’s cash in an envelope into the collection bucket of the Salvation Army. A middle-aged man with a wispy moustache and gap-toothed grin rang his bell and nodded kindly at her, unaware of the generosity of her donation.

Fighting their way around a very crowded coach car full of passengers, wrangling two curious little ones into their seats long enough to breathe in some small measure of relief… it was not fifteen minutes after they’d left New York City that their emissary from the exotic land of Missouri managed to find them.

“Ms. Margaret?” asked the woman. Irish. Northern. She was about forty, petite but broad-shouldered and buxom with black hair, large, saucer-like green eyes, an upturned nose and a pinched, heart-shaped mouth. Her face read as stern, but focused… intensely focused. Margaret liked her immediately. “I’m Niamh Shaughnessy. I’m to help you with the children.”

\------------

There were enough sights to see from the window of their train car, it was just about sufficient to distract both Teddy and Emily from any sustained inquiry along their journey. The Appalachian Mountains looming ahead of them as they powered on toward Pittsburgh, and the beauty of them up close. On lower ground, expanses of farmland and the occasional Amish horse and buggy. And cows, oh so many cows. Emily took to naming each she saw as they passed. (“That’s Rosie… That’s Betty… That’s Grace.”)

Niamh endeared herself even further when late in the afternoon, they visited the dining car and she requested a pot of hot water; from her carpet bag, she produced a sensible brown teapot and a tin of Punjana tea. Margaret just smiled and shook her head; she’d prefer Barry’s, being a Southern lass, but it was still a precious touch of home. They spoke endlessly while the children sketched the views from the windows; Niamh told of her son, Brendan, who was eighteen. Gangly and ginger, like his Da, who had been killed while driving a truck through a snowstorm when they first arrived in Missouri. “We look out for our own, all of us,” she explained. “I miss him, but I’ve got my people. Yours as well, now.”

Margaret traced her cup with her index finger, as the tea level rocked to and fro with the motion of the train. “You’re very kind,” she replied. “I suspect we’ll have much to settle yet. I only want…” She paused, sighing heavily. She continued; “….to live an honest life, that we can be proud of.”

Niamh smiled, nodding. She tilted her head toward the children. “I’ll leave you to it when the time comes for explaining, but if I may say so…” She placed one hand on Margaret’s forearm, reassuringly. “You’ve a good man, that one. I don’t mind telling you there are plenty of opportunities in St. Louis to make a dishonest dollar, and he’s steered clear of every one. He’s keen to do right by you.”

Margaret’s eyes softened, and she self-consciously wrapped one arm around her waist at the belly; reaching out absent-mindedly with her other arm, she stroked Emily’s hair. “I’m not the only one he needs to right do by. But I do appreciate your word, Niamh.”

\--------------

It was nearly dawn, and they’d reach Indianapolis before mid-day. They were close, so very close now.

Emily still slept soundly, tucked under Margaret’s right arm in their small shared bunk; though Teddy had his own bunk above them, he’d joined them during the night. It was his voice now that lulled Margaret from a hazy series of incoherent yet pleasant dreams: The sun on her face. The sound of insects buzzing. Fireflies dancing in the night air. The velvet-soft rumble of Owen’s laughter.

“Mama?” Teddy whispered.

“Hmm… yes, love?”

“Why are we going to St. Louis?”

No pretense, no careful maneuvering of words or phrasing. A simple question that she could not possibly respond to with a simple answer.

“Teddy,” Margaret said, “you do know in spite of what we asked before, that… Enoch, Mr. Thompson, is not your father.”

The boy nodded – no trace of fear or sadness, just an understanding. She continued…

“It… was no longer safe for us to live together with Mr. Thompson. We’re going to St. Louis to build a life for ourselves where we can be safe, and happy. We… well, we may not have as many toys and clothes and nice things for a while, but we’ll have friends and a home to call our own.”

Teddy’s mouth drew tight and he appeared slightly distressed; it might only entertain further questions she truly had no inkling how to address, but it was all she had to offer...

“Do you remember Mr. Sleater?”  Instantly, Teddy’s head tilted back so he could meet her gaze; the train rounded a curve through a thicket of trees and trace of sunlight began to trickle in through the windows, illuminating her son’s fair hair. She smoothed it across his forehead as he nodded “yes.”

“He’ll be in St. Louis as well, and we’ll… be living with him. He’ll help me to take care of you and your sister, and…" (Not yet… it’s not time to tell him about the baby) "...and our family.”

Teddy was very quiet for several moments. Suddenly, he snuggled closer to his mother.

“Owen is _always_ nice to us,” the boy said. “I like him.”

Margaret drew both of her children tightly against her, pulled the covers up over them and smiled. “So do I, love. So do I.”


	2. Owen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I have been working on another fic but I'm feeling this one a lot more at the moment. Also the glut of Margaret/Owen GIF sets on Tumblr didn't exactly hurt. :) 
> 
> I'd recommend going back and re-reading the first chapter, as it's been a little while and these mesh here and there; there's a distance of time that's not covered here (i.e. the weeks in between when Owen left and when Margaret joins him), but that'll appear in the next chapter, which is split between their POVs. Also, because I'm an idiot, I completely forgot about Agent Sawicki being in NY for the Masseria job, so I had to go back and fix that in Chapter 1. Oops. (Blame me trying to subconsciously block most of that episode from memory I guess. ;) ) And I bumped this up to Explicit now because, welp, there's a lot of peen in this chapter...
> 
> As always; un-beta'ed, rough 'round the edges, feedback welcome!

_Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Indianapolis, St. Louis…_

When he had walked Margaret through the journey a few days earlier, it hadn’t sounded so terrible. An array of unfamiliar place names in a country whose size and scope still had the ability to baffle someone from a small island in the North Atlantic, and yet… it was five cities. Enough to count on one hand. Before they knew it, they’d be far enough away to make a life together. Owen had confidence then, a firm belief that his plan would work.

Now? Five cities along hundreds of miles of railroad felt like a trek of biblical proportions. (That was probably blasphemous. Peg wouldn’t approve.)

_Peg…_

_“Why not now?”_  
_“Is that what you want? If it is, say it. Say it and we'll go.”_  
_“It would have to be far.”_  
_“We're thousands of miles already.”_

“Your ticket _please_ , sir,” the train conductor repeated; Owen hadn’t heard his first request, lost as he was in the memory of the moment he and Margaret had hatched the notion of this secret, this plan of theirs. Straightening his back against the seat, he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve the fare; as the conductor moved on, Owen’s eyes were cast across the aisle to where Agent Sawicki sat reading a copy of the New York Times, neat as a pin as ever. Only a handful of other passengers in this car: A woman knitting a brown jumper, a portly gentleman in a bowler hat smoking a cigar. All quiet. The train engine chugged along. Nothing was amiss.

But it all felt _wrong_. Something tasted foul in the air, portentous and distressing. Like death. Not Joe Masseria's... _his own._

He had been too rash agreeing to this job single-handed. He thought he had something to prove, to demonstrate that he was loyal to a point before he was about to cut and run, to abandon this life he’d lived in service of crime in order to grab a claim to something few else would feel he had any right to. Had he been so startled by Margaret's revelation that it didn't sink in until now? How could he have been so reckless? While at face value there was no reason to believe he was walking into a hornet's nest, the Italians were legion. And something didn’t feel right, by God, and there was too much at stake. Margaret's child _. His child…_

When Owen was twelve, his Aunt Roisin gave birth to a son on Boxing Day. The last, late and best present that Christmas, she laughed as she sat up in bed nursing him, all of the children in the family sat on the end of the bed to have a peek at the newborn. Eventually, each of the children lost interest in the baby in favor of play time. Only Owen remained.

“Would… would you like to hold him, Owen?” his aunt asked. Meekly, he nodded, still uncertain why he was so fascinated with his tiny cousin. He came around to the side of the bed and Roisin placed the baby, whom she’d named Declan, in his arms. “Easy does it… support his head, there…”

The baby was so small, so helpless. His little hand clasped onto Owen’s index finger and an overwhelming sense of duty washed over him. He’d have a job of his own soon, inspecting cattle alongside his uncle Bob. And one day he’d be a man and it’d be his job to protect those who needed someone to stand up for them. Too many nights he’d overheard his male relatives cursing the British and their lost sense of freedom. He wanted to fight for little Declan, to be sure he grew up Irish and proud.

It would be a lie for Owen now to claim that he didn’t still feel a deep-rooted sense of patriotism and passion for the cause, but now… now, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to die for it. And the longer the train rattled onward toward Manhattan, the longer he worried his lip with his index finger, stared out the window and daydreamed about the flicker of longing in Margaret’s lovely eyes when she heard those words. _“Say it and we’ll go”…._ The warmth of her petite body as she leaned against him, the sweet smell of her hair. The longer he imagined a life with her, the more he realized he certainly didn’t want to die for Nucky Thompson.

There was another tiny life he had to consider now. That, and that alone, was worth dying for.

\---------------------------------

They arrived in the city, with a couple of hours to spare, and took supper in a hotel café near Union Square. Owen knew better than to doubt his own cool exterior, but it was the most uncomfortable he’d been in ages; to give Sawicki the impression that nothing was awry, he forced half the food down. (It did help that the meatloaf was delicious.)  The entire time he spun his wheels trying to think of some excuse, any excuse other than the obvious one to do what he needed to do. Frankly, he simply didn’t want to remind himself of his own shoddy behavior now that he’d had time to reflect on what he wanted – what he needed – to do.  By the time Sawicki ordered a coffee and asked for their bill, he’d run out of ideas and none of them good enough. Plan A it was.

“Ehm, I’ve got to make a telephone call,” Owen said, taking a sip of water.

Sawicki glared at him over the rim of his cup. “Now? To whom?”

“My girlfriend,” he replied. “I know, don’t say it… it’s my own fault, I forgot to tell her there was a chance I’d not be home tonight and… she’s a worrier, but it’ll only take a moment.”

“We need to scope out the location and we need to leave _now_.” Sawicki placed the cash for the bill upon the table and began walking to the coat rack to fetch his hat. Snotty bastard; if this were any other situation, and Owen were being treated as though he were a common lackey and not with the respect he’d earned doing this job all these many months, he’d put a boot up his arse. Badge or no.

This wasn’t any other situation.

“Go,” he boldly told Sawicki. “You and I both work for Mr.  Thompson but it’s me who’ll answer to him on this job, and I say… _I’ve got to make a phone call.”_ He reached forward, brushing a smattering of dust off of Sawicki’s lapel. There might have been the barest hint of a shove in the movement. Owen smirked at him. “I’ll catch up.”

Sawicki sneered as though he wanted to offer a few choice words, but ultimately he pivoted and walked out into the street to hail a taxi. It wasn’t until he’d gone that Owen retreated back into the hotel… and not to a telephone booth to call Katy.

 _Katy…_ Christ, he did feel terrible about that. If there was one thing he knew he’d have to learn if he was going to go straight, to be as earnest and honest as he could be and help Peg raise a family, it was going to be to not fall back on charm as a crutch. Intimating that he might have intentions toward Katy to get her to stop suspecting his feelings for Margaret – and on the last moment he’d ever see her, now that things were what they were – was an exceptionally cruel thing for him to do.  It was the sort of thing he’d not given a second thought for far too long.  If he was going to entertain luck to remain by his side on this new journey, he’d damn well better start.

“Forgive me, Katy,” he whispered, under his breath, ducking through the hallways toward the kitchens. “I lost my heart to someone else.”

Owen pulled his fedora down over his eyes as he darted around cracked doors and hid behind corners, eluding the wait staff until he could make his way to the service cloak room. There, he shed his suit jacket and hat, yanking his tie quickly from his neck; his tie pin fell to the tile floor with a clatter, and he nervously ducked into the shadows in case someone heard. Once he was certain he wasn’t detected, he grabbed a worn wool coat and a cap and beat a path to the service exit.

For just a moment, Owen Sleater stood at the curb, staring down Third Avenue in the direction of Little Italy. It wasn’t yet too late to change his mind. He could go through with it. He balled up his fists at both sides and closed his eyes and imagined himself at Sawicki’s side, entering a dark bath house… An icy tremor ran through his body, and his blood ran cold. His hand shot up into the air and a Checker cab steered up to the curb.

“Pennsylvania Station, please,” he told the driver, who promptly peeled away. And with that, it was done; the only thing that kept him from the train any longer was a visit to Western Union to send a telegram. He needed to make sure she knew he wasn’t missing. Or dead. Or anything other than intending to see their plan through, no matter what had changed. For a moment, he nearly forgot her brother’s name.

_“Eamonn,” she’d grumbled. “He’s a bastard.”_

It was the relish with which she cursed in that moment. Unexpected things like that… that’s why. That’s why she was one in a million.

\----------------------------

The train to St. Louis seemed interminable; it didn’t help that he barely ate, mostly only taking coffee which probably didn’t help his stomach. Light and dark passed the windows outside; he barely observed the scenery, stepping outside the car only once about half an hour outside Pittsburgh to hurtle his identification and every trace of Owen Sleater into a passing field as the train rattled by. His remaining cash wadded up in his pocket, he returned to his bunk and sank deeper in to the wool coat. Hasty though his quick change act had been, he had chosen well; it kept him warm though, he suspected, the weather was quite mild and it was only his poor diet and lack of sleep causing him a chill.

Everything that was out of his control kept him from his rest. What had Sawicki told Nucky? How long a lead did he have getting out of the city before the jig was up? Clearly, he’d made it out, but how clean a break was it?  Surely by now, Margaret was aware, but had his telegram been received? Worse yet… had it been intercepted? 

Owen’s hands began to shake and he bit his lip so hard he nearly bled; God, all he wanted was to know she was alright. He’d give anything to hear her voice, and the one thing he absolutely couldn’t do was try to call. Meanwhile, if a telegrammed response was on the way, he’d not receive it until he arrived in St. Louis. Which was still hours and hours away…

Dusk set in. As they crossed the border from Pennsylvania into Ohio, a gentle rain began to patter against the window panes. Owen rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the rough grain of a day and a half’s worth of beard, and his lips curled into a smile. The sound of the rain was immeasurably soothing, and with peace of mind he finally began to drift off… lulled into sleep by a most pleasant memory.

**\-----------------------**

“Would you teach me to drive?” she’d asked.

Owen searched her face, slightly incredulous. “What, now?” They’d taken shelter in the car as a sudden downpour began, shortly after they’d looked at a pony for Emily’s birthday.

“No,” Margaret answered. Her eyes tumbled momentarily from where they met his, down the length of his wet face to his mouth, and came back darker.   _“After.”_

 _Aw, Peg,_ he thought to himself. _What you do to me…_

Their kisses were gentle at first. Owen stroked her cheek, nudging at her lips with the tip of his tongue; Margaret shifted across the seat, pressed tightly against him, and deepened the kiss. Her fingers woven into the hair at the back of his head, she shrugged out of her pale green jacket and guided his face her neck.

“D’ya know what I want?” she sighed, her small fingers loosening his tie as he kissed along her neckline, his head dipping to bite softly at her breast through the fabric of her blouse; that pulled a moan out of her that made his prick leap to attention.

“Anything, Peg,” he breathed, his hand gathering her skirt so he could steal a caress of her leg – silk stockings, a hemline and just above it, bare skin which was somehow impossibly silkier – but she stopped him. Yanking the loose tie from around his neck and letting it fall to the floor, Margaret shimmied onto her knees in the space below the passenger seat. Utterly rapt, Owen couldn’t move until suddenly her hand was clawing at the outline of his cock through his trousers. His hips bolted up and he braced his arms across the back of the seat.

“I want to see if I remember what you like,” she cooed.

_Oh, sweet Jesus…_

The first night they’d spent together in bed, the first full night as lovers, Margaret began to demonstrate a desire to learn. There was a hunger, a raw desire to the way she made love to him that clearly came from deep within – and if he were honest, he found it exhilarating when she went a bit rough, clawing at his back and grabbing fistfuls of his arse as he gave her a proper ride. Yet in between, she’d confided in him that she was relatively inexperienced when it came to… other means of pleasure.  She wanted to please him as he did her. They could go slow. He would show her what he liked.  And she was a wickedly fast study…

“Slow,” was all he could manage to say now. One bobby pin was sticking out of Margaret’s hair as she smiled up at him, unbuttoning both his waistcoat and shirt, pushing his vest up with her palms to touch his chest. He pulled the pin out and one long tendril of coppery hair tumbled free, pooling against his stomach as she unbuckled his trousers and gingerly pulled his cock free of his pants. One quick, firm, mollifying stroke was all it took to send his head flying back…

“Look at me, love,” Margaret entreated. His head bolted up and they locked eyes once more. Owen licked his lips as she smiled, warm and blissful. She'd already smiled more that day than he'd ever seen her before, and this one was like staring into the sun. He'd never seen anything so beautiful. She wrapped her lips around the head of his prick. Half kiss, half suckle, and he was totally lost.

 _“Fucking helllll, Peg…”_ One hand sank into her hair and Owen white-knuckled the steering wheel with the other; Margaret was occasionally humming, sighing, softly giggling as she cradled his balls, ran her tongue up and down his length and took him deep into her mouth. Slow, so slow… just like he’d asked. Gently scratching through the hair on his belly every time his eyes slammed shut, wanting him to see how much she was enjoying this, too. It obliterated him how this woman, for all her moments of piousness and propriety, could also be so unrepressed and free. Katy, willing as she was to please him as well, was always shy about it; she never let him watch her, always pulled the blankets over her head. With his Peg, if he wasn’t with her in the moment, it wasn’t worth doing at all.

Was it _him_? Was she truly only like this because it was him she was doing it with? His heart hammered away in his chest and he caressed her forehead. “Stop, please… I need…”

Margaret let his prick slip from her mouth and nipped at his thumb, sucking it into her mouth instead. “Tell me,” she whispered. A distant thunderclap was followed by a fresh sheet of rain battering the roof of the car.

“I need to be inside you,” he groaned. He made a bit of room beside him on the seat, shucking his trousers down to his ankles as Margaret quickly unfastened her garters. Straddling him, she guided him directly home and their foreheads met in a gasp of relief.

He’d never feel anything else this good, ever, he realized. This was like coming home…

\---------------------------------

“Sir, your destination, sir,” the porter said, the gentle shake upon Owen’s shoulder getting a little firmer, rousting him from his slumber. “St. Louis, sir, you need to disembark.”

Owen blinked, scrambled for his hat and stumbled clumsily off the train car onto a platform bathed in sunshine; he remembered the rain, falling asleep fantasizing about Margaret... his body must have completely given out, as he’d slept the entire remainder of the trip. He didn’t know how long, all he knew was he was starving, he desperately needed a piss, and holy hell he’d made it.

Less than an hour later, after a phone call and a short car ride, he was in Emmett Kelly’s kitchen in the North St. Louis neighborhood known as the Kerry Patch. Almost entirely Irish immigrants; tough, with plenty of opportunity for trouble, if you were looking for it. Though they’d fought together back home, Emmett was done with all that now, and he’d promised his old friend to help him on the same path.

“I can’t thank you enough, mate.” Owen shoveled food into his mouth as Emmett poured the tea. A tall, scrawny red-haired youth came down the stairs and peered into the kitchen.

“Jaysus, I don’t believe it… is that wee Brendan?” he asked. Emmett took a bite of soda bread, plucked a crumb from his moustache and nodded.

“The same. Get in here, lad, and meet Owen.”  The boy came in and sat down, pouring himself a cuppa. Owen wiped his mouth with a napkin and shook his head.

“You were just a pup last I saw you. How’s your dad, then, anyway?”  Brendan just smiled, eyes downcast. Emmett cleared his throat.

“Jack Shaughnessy died last winter,” he said. “Road accident.”

Owen sat back, covering his mouth. “Christ, I’m so sorry. Your poor mam, too… Where is Niamh?”

“In Yonkers,” Emmett answered.

“Aw, now you’re pulling my leg, you just made that up.”

Brendan laughed, and finally spoke. “He’s not, it’s in New York.”

“Not far from where you’ve just come,” Emmett explained. “Visiting her sister, she’s just had herself another one. Five girls now, can ya imagine? Anyway, she’ll be back in a few weeks.  Round the same time, I suspect…”

Owen took a deep breath, sipped gingerly at his tea. “I think so. Well, I mean I hope so… It all depends on…” Suddenly his cup hit the saucer with a clank, splashing tea across the tablecloth. How the hell could he have forgotten…

“Easy,” Emmett said, placing a firm hand on Owen’s shirt sleeve. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a telegram. “It came not long after you were on your way.”

Owen took the telegram, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and he stood from the table and walked to the window to read it.  Neither Emmett nor Brendan spoke a word. 

 _A rúnsearc_ , she called him. Literally, it meant "secret love"... but it was the sentiment in that old word that was important. It wasn't something you said to a lover flippantly. There was weight to it. There was emotion.

When he’d finished, Owen slumped against the window frame and an ecstatic laugh erupted from deep in his chest. He turned back to his old friend with damp eyes.

“Thank you,” he said again. Emmett stood, walked over and embraced him, a gentle slap on his shoulder.

“You can thank me later, I’m about to put your arse to work,” Emmett said. “There’s an embarrassment of riches in construction work at the moment, and a lot of land that needs clearing in this city. If you want to earn an honest dollar you’re going to help me do it.  Mr. Murphy…” With that, he handed Owen a large envelope. Folding his telegram from Margaret into his chest pocket, he opened the package to find all the documents that would conceal his identity as he began this new life. He could have taken his mam’s maiden name, O’Dwyer, but that one extra step of distance when there was always a chance someone might be hunting him seemed that much safer. His gran’s maiden name, it was. Owen Murphy… husband of Peggy, father of Theodore and Emily. Or so the papers said. 

And soon, his family would be joining him.


	3. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a whopper, but well... it's a romance tied to unabashed smut, so I had to deliver. And well, there's a kink or two I had to satisfy. Sue me. It's fan fic, it's what we dooo. ;) Finale is also DONE and will follow immediately!...

**Him**

The first week before they arrived, Emmett and his wife, Hana – one of the few non-Irish in the neighborhood, she was Czech – put Owen up in their home while arrangements were made for a vacancy down the road to be leased in his name. The Kellys were good tenants, always paying their bills on time; Hana had a job at the Anheuser-Busch plant, packing brewer’s yeast which had become the number one product keeping the company afloat once beer production stopped. Also, Emmett had done plenty of repair work for the landlord, who owned the entire block; a trusted friend and another set of hands was a welcome addition.

Owen thought it only right that he anchor his new life by stripping himself of the shackles of the old… at least in theory. It’s not something he relished the idea of discussing at length with Margaret, but in a sense that had always been his personal stance on religion. It was wonderful _in theory._ That said, he didn’t discount the value in attempting to make peace with the things he’d done. One morning, bright and early, he woke before heading with Emmett out to a construction site and found the local Catholic parish priest setting a placard for that Sunday’s mass.

“Morning, Father,” he smiled. “I’ve not got all the time in the world, but if you’ve an ear to lend… I’d like to give confession.”

The priest, for his part, couldn’t have been prepared for the whopper he was about to hear; granted, Owen would spare him some of the particulars that might incriminate him too deeply and put the priest in a compromising position. That said, the father’s response was fair and his suggestions for absolution merciful.

“If your true intent is to provide for this family, to keep them safe from harm and to live a virtuous life of significance, then begin this very day. Set a foot upon that path and do not stray. The Lord be with you, my son.”

\-------------------

At the end of that first week, Owen received another telegram, this one from the boarding house Margaret and the children were holed up in while Nucky’s empire was in turmoil; her messages were frustratingly curt, though he sensed a fear of incrimination on her part rather than a lack of desire to connect with him.

WE HAVE READING AND ARITHMATIC TO KEEP BUSY, she wrote. LONGING TO FEEL MISSOURI UNDER OUR FEET. 

He wondered what exactly she’d told the children; though he was a troublemaker in the days when their lives were upended by chaos regularly, Owen suspected Margaret would have an easier time with Teddy than she realized. The boy primarily longed for stability, and he was confident he could give him that.  It was Emily he worried about; the opulent lifestyle they had enjoyed had been a placating distraction from the pain and frustration of the girl’s recovery. And she was so young yet; there would be confusion, of the sort that he wasn’t terribly convinced he could belay.

FEET ON THE GROUND, AND YOU IN MY ARMS. I PROMISE, was his reply.

Owen left the messenger’s office and returned to the construction site to collect his paycheck for that week; outside, under a heavily branched elm tree, Emmett stood smoking. He motioned to Owen, who doffed his cap and leaned against the trunk alongside his mate; he blew a stray strand of hair out of his face before lighting his own cigarette. The golden light of dusk began to fall over the thoroughfare, though it was still miserably humid.

“Ginty’s sent a telegram from New Jersey. Keeping an ear out for us,” Emmett said. “Agent Sawicki is dead.”

Owen stared straight ahead at the road before them, his breath caught for the briefest moment before exhaling a long plume of smoke. “What did he do?” he asked.

Emmett flicked his ashes onto the dirt at his feet. “He took his eyes off you.”

\--------------------

The weeks passed, and Owen poured himself into the physicality of the work. No news from New Jersey was good news; meanwhile, Margaret sent the occasional note confirming their safety. The more he could clear his head by keeping his hands occupied – though mind you, the sort of work Emmett had him doing meant putting his back and every other part of himself into it, not just his hands – was a gift to keep his mind off the open-ended questions of this uncertain time.

They finished the extension of a schoolhouse into a second classroom, one not half a mile from Branch Street; it gave Owen a shiver to think that Teddy and Emily, and eventually his own little one, might study in that room. They helped break ground on a new block of apartments on a parcel of land that had just been cleared prior to his arrival. They even raised a barn just outside the city limits. He’d properly gone native, alright.

One balmy Saturday, July 5th to be exact… the essence of explosives, of the non-lethal eye-catching variety, still hung in the air from the night before. (What a dazzler; Owen would have given anything for her to be here to see it.) Two in-over-their-heads teens had tried to wrestle a chest of drawers far larger than would fit through the doorway of the Kelly’s building, taking the front door off its hinges in the process. Partially because keeping his mind and body occupied was his obsession these days, and also out of sheer kindness, Owen consented to fix the door for the landlord.  He’d strong-armed the new door halfway down the road, set it in place himself and secured the top hinge before realizing he was drenched in sweat. If he’d thought summers were fierce before on the Jersey coast, it was nothing compared to St. Louis in mid-summer. Just oppressive.

Leaning against the door jamb, Owen mopped his face with the button-down shirt that had previously been knotted at his chest; unthinking, he peeled the thin cotton vest from his body and wiped down his neck and shoulders. It was a good several moments standing upright against the door frame in the shade, relishing the slightest breeze on his bare chest, before he heard it. Whispers, high-pitched, of the feminine variety. He opened his eyes and scanned the road below… landing on two girls, probably seventeen or eighteen, standing on the stoop about two doors down gawping in his direction.

For the briefest moment, pride reared its head and  Owen forgot his personal promise not to entertain a wayward thought. Gut instinct took over and, with two pretty young girls admiring his physique, he leaned his head back against the door frame and flashed them a winning smile. Both girls, erupting in a fit of giggles, ran up the stoop and disappeared into their building; meanwhile, Owen hardly noticed the figure approaching him until he heard the feminine, accented voice.

“Can I get you a shirt, Mr. Murphy?” Hana Kelly asked him. She was wiping her hands on a dishtowel, her apron and straw-colored hair dusted with flour. They were close friends, Hana and Emmett, and only ever referred to him by his first name; using his alias surname was surely Hana’s attempt to insert propriety into the moment. Owen suddenly felt very exposed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Ehm… no, no I’m nearly done here. Thanks.” Fumbling, feeling quite foolish and knowing full well he had not the slightest intentions in what just happened, he yanked his sweat-drenched vest back on while Hana retreated to the Kellys’ abode; in quick succession, he finished securing the door, gathered his tools and returned to his own home where he sat in a lukewarm bath for what seemed like ages.

It felt so very empty, this house, and not because it still lacked furnishings other than a bed and a few kitchen necessities. It needed warmth, and laughter. It needed Margaret and the children.

He needed them. So much.

\-------------------------------------

Margaret’s telegram worried him. _IT MUST BE SOON_ — although nothing directly implied that Nucky suspected anything or that their plan was in any way in danger, the urgency of this latest message drove Owen to beg Emmett to lend him a tiny bit of money to complete the cost of all the fares needed to bring them to St. Louis for good. (He’d saved as much as he could, in between having to purchase a few simple necessities to fill the house and get it ready for them. Jaysus knows, they weren’t all about to sleep in one bed together.)

That evening, he placed a call from the Kellys’ (He was still without a phone of his own, or electricity for that matter) to Yonkers, NY and spoke with Niamh Shaughnessy.

“She’s small, fair skin. Auburn hair, really… large brown eyes.” Owen’s voice grew soft as he described Margaret so she’d be recognized. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Aye, well that’s subjective innit?” Niamh cracked. “Some help you are. Don’t you worry yourself, I’ll find her.”

Of course, he did worry. Train travel could be exhausting if one pressed on and on without stopping, which was once again the intention; the mere notion of Margaret’s condition reaching the point at which it was visibly apparent caused him extra concern. Would she be comfortable enough in a train bunk? Even with Niamh, would the children mind and not cause her any undue stress?

The next morning, his care package on its way to New York to deliver them safely into his arms, Owen walked over to the church and gave confession. In which he offered a handful of moments in which he felt his spirit had strayed, and plowed through a litany of anxieties over the current situation.

“I can’t shake the feeling… dunno, maybe this is the test. We’re so close now, and I’m…. _terrified_ I’ve not made good on my promises. That it’ll all still catch up…”

The priest sighed heavily, not asking Owen to expand on what “it” he was referring to. Instead he offered a suggestion.

“I grant you, I may not be precisely the ideal person to offer this sort of proposal,” he said. “But I have heard enough confessions to allow me to infer a fair deal, and it’s my understanding that… for someone who is soon to be a father, and for the first time no less, it’s not unnatural for one to be filled with doubts of one kind or another.”

Owen rubbed his temple with his index finger and laughed in spite of himself. “So you’re saying, this is normal and I should shut my gob and go about my business.”

“Well, you could also say a Hail Mary before you shut your gob,” the priest replied. “It certainly couldn’t hurt.”

\------------------------------------

It was Saturday when they arrived. Mid-day.  A respite from the recent punishing humidity, the afternoon brought a sudden breezy coolness from the West.

The men had been up since before daybreak continuing their work clearing a nearby parcel which would soon be a new library; lately, they only had Sundays to rest. Owen had pushed himself so hard, so single-mindedly to prevent his nervousness and excitement from getting the best of him, that at one point he reared back and came dangerously close to catching Brendan’s shoulder with the back of his pick-axe. After apologizing profusely, he slowed down and tried only to focus on the sound of the work… heaving breaths, crumbling earth. Their shift would be over soon…

Hana was already on her way to the train station once they returned home; Owen darted upstairs to wash, shave, put his cleanest and best shirt and slacks on. He was still pulling his braces up over his shoulders as he scrambled from room to room, checking the corners for dust… making sure the children’s beds were neat and tidy.

“Owen! They’re here!” Brendan’s voice rang out from the street below.

As he descended the stoop, his eyes cast down the pavement to the front of the Kellys’ building, he took in the entire sight: Niamh ruffling her son’s hair and beseeching him to stand up straight, Emmett bending down on one knee to introduce himself to Teddy and shake his hand, Hana carrying two small valises ahead into the front doorway.  All he could focus on, however… was her.

After making sure Emily was carefully lifted from the car and set on her braces, Margaret had looked up and caught sight of him, paused where he was at the foot of the steps. She looked so tired, and yet in her straw hat and pale peach dress, her hair plaited over one shoulder… the moment she drew a huge breath of relief and smiled, he broke out into a run. And he didn’t care if the entire neighborhood watched, but Owen lifted Margaret up off her feet and spun her, her hat tumbling to the sidewalk as she laughed against the crown of his head.

“Such a sight for sore eyes,” she sighed, letting Owen gently lower her to her feet before melting into his kiss. Owen could have said the same, if he weren’t lost in her lips until Niamh wise-cracked that eventually they’d have to come up for air.

\-----------------------------------------------

**Her**

Much to her relief, Margaret observed a happiness in Teddy she’d not seen for… well, perhaps ever. He warmly embraced Owen and even offered to help carry a bag from the car. Quite brazenly, he asked Hana Kelly what was for dinner once they’d all entered the house, although she could hardly begrudge him; they were all in need of a solid meal.

Emily, meanwhile, pouted and clung to Margaret’s skirt, eyeing everyone and all their surroundings with suspicion. Part of her regretted not taking advantage of their time on the train to attempt to talk to her daughter as she had with Teddy; allowing Owen to take her hat and handbag, Margaret knelt down and rubbed her daughter’s shoulders soothingly.

“What’s the matter, _cuishle_?” she asked the child. Emily’s lower lip wibbled slightly, until suddenly a sprightly “meow” emerged from the soft light of the small parlour. A fluffy brown tomcat, with a round face and a jagged bit missing from one ear, had leapt into the window sill and was rubbing its head on the frame, purring. Margaret took note that suddenly the girl’s eyes grew as large as saucers; apparently, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Owen, either.

“That’s Archie,” Owen informed them. He tapped Emily on the end of the nose and the girl turned to him, her mouth which had been hanging open suddenly snapping shut. “You know what he likes?” Emily shook her head, and Owen continued: “He likes picking the bits off fish bones, aaand catching mice and spiders… oh, and he really likes it when you scratch him under the chin like this.”  Demonstrating on Emily, she giggled and Margaret couldn’t help but glide a hand across Owen’s back affectionately. 

“D’ya want to give it a try?” Owen asked.  Emily nodded ‘yes’, and he patiently accompanied her to the settee, lifting her up to sit and snapping his fingers to get the cat’s attention. Once Archie was curled up in Emily’s lap, purring away, Owen returned to Margaret and she hoisted him against her by his braces.

“You never told me there was a cat,” she whispered against his lips. She swooned a little as he kissed both corners of her mouth tenderly.

“I’ve got a few surprises yet,” he answered, with a wink.

\---------------------------------------

Dinner was a simple but bountiful spread: pork shoulder, served with a savory sliced dumpling Hana explained was native to Czech cooking. There was both sauerkraut and buttered cabbage, dark bread and soda bread, and Niamh unpacked apple butter and plum preserves she’d brought back from her sister’s kitchen in New York.  The conversation was lively, and primarily consisted of catching Margaret up on what she’d missed since Owen had begun settling in, plus what she’d come to expect from the neighborhood. Not once did any discussion take place of what she’d left behind; only for the briefest moment did she find this fact odd, quickly realizing that it was in everyone’s best interest to make a concerted effort not to look back. There was only tomorrow that was of consequence, only their future.

“And I promise,” Owen said, putting down his fork and taking Margaret’s hand, “the electricity will be on by the end of the week.”  Everyone at the table laughed, and Owen pointed a finger in Emmett’s direction; “And you’ll be paid back by the end of the month.” His friend scoffed, and meanwhile Margaret turned her hand and laced her fingers with Owen’s. His gaze returned to her, down to their hands where she rhythmically rubbed a callous on his palm with her thumb, and then back up. Margaret searched his eyes for recognition, a sense that she realized how hard he’d worked since the moment he left to bring them here. He returned the sentiment by bringing her hand to his lips and softly kissing her knuckles.

“I believe I was the one who told you that if all else failed, we’d live with the Indians,” Margaret told him, sending another chuckle around the table. Owen shrugged his shoulders and swallowed a mouthful of cabbage.

“She did,” he acknowledged.

“Then it’s fair to say we’ll manage a few more days by candlelight,” Margaret said. Owen looked at her again, and there was so much kindness and love and desire in his eyes this time that she trembled where she sat. _Beautiful man_ , she thought to herself. _I need to get you alone, and soon…_

They ate and ate, told stories about their homes back in Ireland (or in Hana’s case, the region called Bohemia in what was now called Czechoslovakia), joked and jibed and laughed, and Margaret was quite satisfied that this group of strangers were the sort of people she could come to rely on.  Even consider an extended family.  She felt so good, she hardly batted an eyelash at the fact that Emily’s dinner had mostly consisted of bread and apple butter with small bites of everything else. Once no one could conceive of eating any more food, Owen and Brendan helped to gather up their bags and walked them down to their own residence. Like the Kellys’, it was small and narrow, and for the time being a bit dark and sparsely furnished, but it was a sturdy roof over their heads and Margaret felt immensely hopeful.  There was much she could do in this space to make it theirs, a place they could feel safe and secure.

Her belly full and her body exhausted from the journey, Emily had knocked out like a light on Margaret’s shoulder somewhere along the too-brief walk over from the Kellys’; their mother suspected, the same would soon befall Teddy once she’d gotten him tucked into bed. With both children sound asleep, Owen and Margaret lingered in the hallway outside their bedroom exchanging slow, langorous kisses for longer than either of them intended.

“I honestly… don’t know… what we’re waiting for…” Owen whispered in between kisses planted along her jaw and throat. Margaret smiled, stroking him along his flank as she delicately lifted the candlestick from his grasp, backing up into the bathroom where she placed it on the edge of the sink. 

“You’re going to wait for me,” she instructed, walking into the bedroom lit only by a faint sliver of moonlight from the window, and a bit of ambient light from neighboring homes.  She rifled through one of her suitcases to find her nightgown, Owen helpfully lighting another candle for her.  She caressed his cheek as he blew out the match.

“Want to wash the smell of the train off me,” she said.  “Make yourself useful, warm up the bed.”

Owen chortled at her cheekiness, calling after her: “Aye, Mrs. Murphy.”

\-------------------------------------------

There wasn’t much from her first marriage that Margaret recalled with any sort of fondness whatsoever; in truth, most of it caused her to recoil with disgust at the memories.  However, one stretch of time during her first pregnancy had lingered as something of a pleasant footnote for years, and it was when she discovered her body had begun to respond… enthusiastically, was the only way she could put it, to stimulation. The slightest touch of her tenderest places might cause her to shudder with delight. Though she was four months pregnant at the time, she began to crave physical contact with Hans in way she never had before; at that time, she was able to stifle thoughts of sinfulness or impropriety under the proviso that she would be doing this with her husband, and the father of her child. This early in their marriage, Hans still displayed moments of gentleness and happily welcomed her advances. It was Margaret’s first taste of genuine sexual pleasure, though nothing at all like what she’d discover years later. With him…

By the time she was pregnant with Emily, Hans’s drinking had grown worse and his temper uncontrollable; to say he was no longer receptive to her unprovoked desires was putting it kindly. There were times when on her own, as she bathed or dressed herself, a momentary urge to touch herself and soothe the simmering need she felt several times a day would encroach and she would quickly and nervously stifle these urges. Pleasuring one’s self was sinful, and she couldn’t allow herself to do it.

As she stood in the tub of her new home, her hair piled upon her head and soaping herself by candlelight, Margaret felt in her heart that she’d transgressed in altogether too many sinful ways in her life to concern herself greatly with a modicum of physical pleasure. She would be setting forth from this day onward to make amends for the shameful choices she’d made, even if living together - posing as man and wife, despite not actually being married - because they had no other choice was essentially no better than eloping.  Their deeds would render their union worthwhile, and their lives meaningful and true. Their private life – her private moments – were her own business.

Margaret turned on the overhead shower tap and let the surprisingly robust spray of hot water sluice down her curves. She allowed herself to slip one hand down the curve of her rounded belly to the heat below; striking a nerve, she shuddered and her palm smacked the tiles.

At the moment, her business was making love to the man in the next room…

\-----------------------------------

Owen was in just his vest and white cotton drawers when she returned to the bedroom. Lying on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and cracking his knuckles. As Margaret closed the door behind her and placed her candle on the dresser next to the other, unpinning her hair and letting it fall loose over her shoulders, Owen eagerly scooted to the end of the bed, cracking another knuckle.

“Must you?” Margaret winced, shaking her head. Owen sat on his hands, and she giggled.

“Mea culpa,” he shrugged. “Nervous habit, and I know you’ll not be having any of me smoking in bed, so…”  Margaret wrinkled her nose at him as she walked to the window, looking out into the street below. Other than a few folks still returing to their homes, the distant sound of a carriage or car, it was beautifully quiet. Behind it, a lush faint buzz of insects.

“D’you know what I noticed? How green it is here,” Margaret noted, her hand pressed to the glass as she craned her head to look down the road, toward the side of town that was still rich with foliage in the distance.

“Mmm. Like home in that way, isn’t it?” Owen leaned back a bit and then extended a beckoning hand; Margaret gave him a sultry look over one shoulder before drawing the drapes and joining him at the foot of the bed.

“In a _different_ way, but yes,” she observed. Softly, she nudged his bare feet apart with her own and stood between his knees. Owen’s gorgeous, full lips parted, his eyelashes fluttering as Margaret let her powder blue dressing gown fall from her shoulders to the floor. She kissed, nuzzled his forehead as she lifted his roughened hands to skate over her too, too thin cotton shift. Owen’s thumbs ghosted over her nipples, which had very recently begun to swell, and the inside of her thighs began to strain and ache.

“Undress me,” she urged him.

In seconds, one of Owen’s hands found its way up the back of her gown to lovingly cup her bottom, squeezing every so often as he popped one pearled button at a time open at her front. Nearly finished, he paused as Margaret’s hands began to stroke up and down the ripples of his shoulders and arms. She sighed approvingly.

“Lot of heavy lifting since you saw me last.” He thumbed her chin, a familiar and welcome greeting, and she rewarded him with the first slow, deep kiss.

“You wear it well,” she breathed, drawing his bottom lip into her mouth and suckling gently as she clenched the back of his vest in both fists; distracted though he undoubtedly was by her breast about to spill from her wide-open gown, Owen divested himself of the garment before returning to the task she’d set before him.

He simply stared, rapt, as the nightgown slowly slid from her body and he drank in her already-changing, increasingly curved body. The first sensation of warm, dewy wetness between her legs accompanied Owen’s hands smoothing over the slope of her breasts, then the same movement over the roundness of her belly. Their romantic intentions slowed just for a moment, as Owen rubbed his cheek against her stomach, kissed it… traced her navel with genuine awe. Ultimately, it only fed her fire.

“I _want_ you…” Margaret carded a hand through Owen’s hair and tilted his head back, flatly addressing her desire. It wasn’t a request. She closed her mouth over Owen’s tongue as she moved her hand over his, back down past her breast and belly to where the urgency was most apparent. The kiss broke and a tiny ripple of startled laughter spilled out of Owen as his eyes grew wide and his fingers curled over her mound, dipping into the wetness; already, she began to quake. He whistled as if to say, _well isn’t that something…_

“Are you sure, though…” His fingers hadn’t stilled, still sweeping to and fro through her folds until Margaret had to stop knitting her fingers into the hair below his collarbone and grasp his shoulders for leverage. She even raised one knee onto the mattress beside his thigh, giving him better access. _Oh that was good, that was so deliciously good…_

“Sure of what?” Margaret asked, lapping and sucking at his earlobe as though it were a sweet. She grazed the tiniest spot high on his jaw which he’d apparently missed when he shaved, the rasp of a few stray hairs upon her lip making her moan.

“That we won’t… Ah hell, y‘know…” Owen placed both hands on her cheeks so he could look into her eyes. He cast his eyes downward, sheepishly. “…. _hurt the baby?_ ”

Precious man. Margaret combed the hair off his forehead, tittering as she dropped a trail of kisses from his hairline down to the end of his nose.

“Right now...” — a pause, softly kissing his upper lip — “…. the baby’s about the size of a walnut.”

Owen’s eyebrows furrowed and he pulled a face that read as _fancy that_ , before gliding his hands up her hips and over her belly again. “So… what’s taking up the rest of all that space then?”

Margaret gasped, momentarily ignoring the distractingly rock-hard length of him as she kneed his crotch and twisted his nipple between her thumb and forefinger. “Goooooo to _hellll!_ ” she bellowed, and Owen chanted _ow ow ow ow_ in protest.

“I’m jokin’, _jokin’_ ”! Owen laughed, falling back onto the bed and graciously allowing her to smack him over the head as she reclined beside him. She narrowed her eyes, lifting one index finger to still his lips. One eyebrow raised, Owen opened his mouth just enough to let her finger slip inside and dandle on the end of his tongue, and immediately Margaret melted again. He sat up momentarily, fluffing a pillow and urging her upward to place it under her head.

“You’re so unbelievably beautiful, Peg.”

Margaret felt a flush over her entire body, from her cheeks down to her toes. This was his specialty, this overwhelming ability to charm… only the way he was looking at her right now, it was markedly different. Nothing could have prepared her for the reverence in his voice and the way his eyes searched hers for acknowledgment…

“You know, you said something in that last telegram that I was a bit miffed I didn’t get to hear you say to my face…”

For a second, Owen’s eyes were blank until he recalled what he’d put in that message. He exhaled then leaned forward to kiss her breast, and then her shoulder before lying his head on the pillow next to hers, rubbing his cheek into her hair.

“I thought… perhaps given how frightened and uncertain you might be, that… it was best if you heard it sooner rather than later.”

Damn him, he did have a point. Two sides to this coin, and both had value. Margaret tugged at the hair on his groin and urged him closer.

“Say it now and all is forgiven,” she smiled as she loosened the drawstring on his drawers, one hand darting below the waistline and finding the swollen head of his cock; Owen’s head bolted off the pillow and he hissed, licking his lips as her thumb worked over the slit…

“I love you, Peg, _my God… I love you…_ ”

And she knew, in every bone in her body, that it was true. She felt it in every caress, every kiss, every roll of his hips. As his underwear found their way onto the floor and she showed him what she wanted… lying side by side on the bed, raising her leg just enough so he could slide in behind her… Margaret’s entire body quivering through a climax the moment he penetrated her.

“ _Just like that love... like that_ , ” she entreated.  Grasping his hard-muscled forearm for support, as he reached around her belly and snaked his fingers between her legs once more. Rubbing and rubbing as he continued to thrust her to orgasm. Margaret bit the end of the pillow, and then his thumb, and then Owen licked and bit the nape of her neck and she came yet again. Slower, deeper… she fondled Owen’s hip and tried to reach further around, barely able to reach the high, firm swell of his arse. His thighs tensed against the back of her own. Oh, he was close…

“I love _you_ , Owen,” she panted, and suddenly there was nothing but his sweet, lingering kiss, and his lovely, stifled cry as he spent inside her.

For a long time, neither of them said a word. They just lay there, sharing the occasional lazy caress.  Finally Owen spoke.

“Put out the lights, yeah?”

“Mmm, yes please. I don’t believe I can stand on my own two legs at the moment.” Margaret squeezed his thigh and Owen gave a naughty chuckle.  He rolled slowly off the side of the bed, giving Margaret a beautiful view in the few moments before both candles were extinguished. Once again in darkness, Owen helped her reposition herself, gently lifting her legs so he could roll the covers back and climb in beside her. So soft, so warm…everywhere.  Margaret snuggled closer and, the moment Owen’s hand instinctively went straight for her tummy, she sighed contentedly.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Murphy,” Owen whispered, just behind her ear.

“Good to _be_ home, Mr. Murphy,” she smiled.


	4. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. With a bit of angst, and a fair amount of happily ever after. (Come on, you knew it was coming...) Shorter than the others, and there is NO SMUT in this chapter (shocker!) - that said, it was my favorite one to write. (I wrote most of it weeks ago. Oh, I had something in mind for these two from the beginning...) Enjoy, hope the fix-it did the trick for all you heartbroken shippers. ;)

Colleen Frances Rohan Sleater (Murphy) was born on February 12th, 1924. President Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, as it turned out: A fine day to welcome their child, born an American. A bright, crisp winter morning when the sun broke through after a storm, illuminating soft piles of snow drifts around every street corner in St. Louis until they sparkled white. Colleen was delivered in her parents' bed, with Niamh serving as midwife. She had her mother's thick auburn curls and her father's big hazel eyes with the cheeky glint, even in infancy.

When he'd left his love to get on a train to New York City on that fateful morning, Owen had told Margaret he'd like their baby to be a boy. But the moment his daughter was placed in his arms, any preconceptions evaporated like so much hot air. She pursed her lips and reached the tiniest hand out to grasp his collar, staring him in the eye like the no-bullshit-tolerated Sleater she was. A steady flow of tears ran down Owen's cheeks as he held her to his chest and whispered "A leanbh mo chroí" and "Isn't she just the wee princess?" to her, to himself, and to Margaret.

“She’s _ours_ , Peg,” Owen said, his voice brimming with wonder. “We _made_ her.” Margaret beamed as he was awash with the glow of a first-time parent, so taken with him as he poured over their little girl. She caressed his thigh as he sat in the chair beside her, and nodded off from time to time. (It was the longest labor she'd been through yet; she cursed her presumption that on her third child, this would in any way be a cake walk.)

Comfortable in their new if less-elegant surroundings when they'd arrived, the children had accepted the news that they'd soon have a new sibling relatively easily. Any questions about the baby paled in comparison over the course of Margaret's pregnancy to the awkwardness of trying to explain why they suddenly had to all call themselves "Murphy." In time, however, half-baked explanations gave way to repetition and the sort of acceptance that is deeply ingrained once a child feels their world is safe and stable. Meanwhile, true to his word Owen stayed out of the turf wars over bootlegging that went on between the Irish gangs in north St. Louis, though he could have easily gotten work with any of them. His and Emmett's construction partnership made good money steadily on contract jobs clearing land throughout the city, much of which had been earmarked for projects such as the new Solder's Memorial museum. Margaret devoted much of her time the next few years to Colleen, and to Emily’s continued physical progress – the girl’s determination to be self-reliant and as able as she could be inspired every one of them – until, when her youngest was out of diapers, she longed to be useful.

With Brendan earning a decent wage alongside the men, Niamh offered her services to look after the children so that Margaret could seek out a job; after six weeks of discouragement and fruitless searching, a fleeting moment of clumsiness delivered an unexpected dividend: She exited an elevator directly into the general manager of KMOX radio, who was bringing a bouquet of lilies to his departing secretary who was getting married and moving with her new husband to Omaha. He wound up with pollen all over his new silk shirt, but the next thing Margaret knew she had a job at the fledgling wireless station, one of 16 in the newly-created Columbia Phonographic Broadcasting System. It was 1927, and Margaret and Owen were blissfully happy; as an eventual by-product of their constant state of joy, in the fall of 1928 their son Sean Henry – a cherubic, happy baby with dark hair and bright green eyes that no one could explain outside his pure Irish pedigree – was born.

In 1929, everything changed, and by 1931 the Great  Depression had all but brought construction in St. Louis to a standstill. It would be another year yet before the ERA was passed, bringing more public works jobs to a city that desperately needed them; in the meantime, Owen, Emmett, Brendan and many of the men whose exceptional labor had carried the city through the Twenties suddenly found themselves taking any job that came their way.   In the spring of that year, Owen took a job in a cobbler’s shop, a father and son outfit; the son needed someone to take up the slack when his father, a wizard in his day, simply could no longer do the work with his debilitating arthritis. Teddy, now fifteen, looked up to Owen immensely and had on several occasions begged to be allowed to work, and help bring more money in; Margaret flatly refused, insisting that he stay in school. (Privately, as Owen held her late at night, she reluctantly admitted that if the day came when things got too difficult she may yet change her mind.)

Having continued at her post as the station grew and flourished, in spite of the plummeting economy – someone always needs to report the news – Margaret did not find herself wanting for work. The infrastructure at KMOX would likely crumble without her, if they were honest. With the diminished income that everyone contributing to the household brought in, however, these were lean times. The sort which at one time, Margaret prayed she’d never have to put her little ones through ever again. Now, she was wiser, and grateful for the things she held most precious: An honest existence. Contributing to society in a meaningful way. Beautiful children, and a beautiful partner who adored her.  Everything else seemed… surmountable. They would get by. They could live a life they would be proud of.

\-----------------------------

It was a drizzly evening in the middle of May, and Margaret arrived home to a warm, bustling kitchen.   Brendan came by to see his mam, and was on his way out to wait tables at in one of the last upscale restaurants uptown; Niamh was binding a cabbage leaf with a single piece of streaky bacon and a handful of peppercorns to season a larger pot of cabbage, while Teddy had been drafted to mash potatoes. Emily sat at the table with Colleen, helping her with arithmetic lessons; Sean Henry, in the sanded wood booster seat his da had made that he inherited from his sister, squealed and giggled until Margaret came over and peppered his face with kisses.

“You all seem very preoccupied, and this little scamp is too small, so I guess it’s me who’ll set the table,” Margaret bemoaned; she leaned down to reach the everyday plates in the china cabinet just a moment too soon to catch the reflection of Owen behind her. When she stood upright, his finger was already pushing her bobbed hair from her neck so he could plant a lush, soft kiss on her nape; as ever when he greeted her this way, warmth spread from her belly and her knees wobbled. Thank heavens, she did not drop the dishes.

“When did you get home?” she asked.

“Not ten minutes ago,” he murmured against her ear. “And I’ll help, if you need.” They looked at one another in the mirror over the cabinet; Owen’s laugh lines were more prominent, and the hair on his temples had begun to thin out gently. Yet he was every bit as handsome as they day she’d met him, nervously clutching his hat and charming her senseless.

“You’ll do it yourself, if you know what’s good for you,” she jibed with the confidence of the household’s primary bread winner. Owen squeezed her waist.

“Fair enough. But…” There was a long pause, and he brushed his lips along her hairline. “I need a word in the parlor first. Just you.”

Margaret turned around, placing the dishes on the table, then turning back to her man with a quizzical look on her face; still, she nodded, unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse and rolling up her sleeves. She whispered to Niamh that they’d be back shortly, and paused to instruct Teddy on the finer points of scraping down a pot of mash before she and Owen were alone.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her voice steeped in concern as they hovered in the near-dark of the parlour, near the stairs. Owen took both her hands in his, leaning against the banister with a long sigh.

“Emmett’s mate Conall Ginty, the one from New Jersey, he sent a telegram.”

“To _you_?” Margaret inquired. She was very confused. There was another long pause before Owen spoke again.

“Nucky Thompson is dead,” he said.

Nothing, no matter what promises of wealth or reputation or comfort beyond measure you might have bestowed upon her, could ever convince Margaret now that leaving Atlantic City had been a mistake. Not after the joy of the past eight years, not even when they struggled. All the same, the news hit her like a punch in the stomach, and she felt the most intensely strange mix of relief and profound sadness.

“W..when? How?!” She wobbled a bit, and Owen smoothed his hands up and down her shoulders soothingly.

“Two days ago. He was shot, on the Boardwalk.” Margaret hissed in horror and released Owen’s hands, retreating into the darkness of the parlour, dim light from the street lamps scarecely penetrating the worn lace curtains. Of course… _of_ _course_ he was. In plain view of everyone.

Owen didn’t approach. A part of her just wanted to hold him, kiss him breathless and to relish the realization that at last they were truly free, but she had too many questions yet.

“Who?”

“There was a lad. He’d been working for Nucky for months. It’s all being kept a bit quiet, but…” Owen’s voice cracked, and he rubbed one hand over his mouth. What on earth… for the first time in several years, his real name came tumbling from her lips.

“Owen Sleater, you tell me wh…”

“The word on the street is… is it was James Darmody’s son. Tommy.”

Margaret made a low, keening sound of distress, and both hands flew up to cover her face. That was the one, the first lie Enoch had ever told her that she didn’t will herself to believe on some level. They had just been married, and he turned right ‘round and delivered a lie like that. It was patently absurd that Jimmy would re-enlist in the army…

“Ma?” Teddy’s voice rang out from the kitchen doorway. “Are… you okay?”

“YES, Teddy!” Margaret barked, immediately regretting her volume. She shuffled toward the incandescent light and brushed her son’s cheek with her knuckles. “Everything is just fine, honestly. We’ll be in for supper, I just…. I need a few more moments with Owen alone, please.”

Teddy looked past her shoulder at Owen, and presumably was assured by his stepfather’s expression which she could not see; he nodded, reaching out and hugging his mother before leaving them alone once more.  Margaret blinked and suddenly became aware she was crying; wiping the tears away brusquely, she strode quickly over to Owen, took his hand and led him to the sofa to sit beside her.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” she explained. “And by Jove, I need you to tell me the truth.”

Owen nodded. He did not let go of her hand. Several seconds of silence elapsed.

“Did Enoch… have James Darmody killed?”

“No.” And before Margaret could push back that she didn’t believe him, Owen bluntly explained his reply: “He did it himself. Nucky killed him, he shot him in the head.”

That was not an answer she expected. But in hindsight, it didn’t surprise her in the least. At last, Owen let go of her hand and proffered an outstretched arm; Margaret crumpled against him, their foreheads pressed together as they rocked back and forth. “I swear on my ma’s good name, Peg, I didn’t kill him.”

“Don’t swear on your mother’s name.”

“Alright, then.” There was the briefest hint of a smile in his response.

“I believe you.” There was going to be a “But..” though. She could feel it coming.

“But… I was there.”

Margaret huffed, exasperated, and pulled away, her face knotted with post-dated disappointment. Owen stared at where her hands were intertwined, his breath shallow, as though he feared she’d get up and walk out if he wasn’t very careful of the next thing he said. Still, she’d asked for honesty…

“There were others, as well. Eli. Manny Horvitz. And Peg, if you really want the honest truth… At that time?” Owen shrugged angrily… angry at himself, she realized. “Any one of us would have done it, if he’d asked. But he wanted to. He insisted.”

 There didn’t seem to be anything she could add, but Margaret felt she should at least nod to indicate her understanding. It was actually a bit shocking how rapidly old memories could overtake her, make her instantly frustrated and possibly distrustful of the man who had defied all expectations and only done right by her for all these years.  She couldn’t honestly excuse her actions, for they had merit… but she did feel badly about it.

“Owen… what’s done is done, but you must realize… I’m allowed my own feelings about this.”

“Of course, love,” he nodded.  He turned her hand over upon his lap, caressing her palm with his own.  “I only… I mean, all I ask is that you understand I’ve made peace with it and I’ve only ever tried to make it right since.”

“Of course, I realize that.” Margaret stroked his cheek, against the grain of his beard. And then he poured his heart out…

“It’s just the thing, though, Peg. No matter what I’ve done, for you and the kids, it’s in those moments where you get caught in your memories… and it happens when you don’t expect, scrapin’ the mud off your boot or washin’ your face in the morning. And you stop and think… was it enough?  Is there not one thing I’ve done that’s not going to catch up to me… is there not some remnant of some damned thing I did out there I’ve long forgotten?  Someone still looking for Owen Sleater, to do what _he_ thinks he has to do to make things right…”

Owen’s fear manifested in an angry, spiteful tone that belied the quiver in his voice and the tears welling in his eyes. Margaret’s own upset dissipated as she pulled him into her arms and stroked his hair. 

“No one can say, love, but I tell you this… Owen Murphy is a fine man with a fine reputation, and he’s shoveled a lot of shite to make good on a promise, what?” Margaret stifled a laugh, but Owen couldn’t, wiping away a tear with his knuckle and drawing her hands up close to his chest.

“You made the right choice. _We_ did. Dunno about you, but I feel good about our chances.”

"We've done alright, eh?"

She kissed him delicately. "We've certainly not let life pass us by."

Margaret had already seen Colleen’s curly head poking ‘round the kitchen door, but didn’t say anything; she motioned gently for the little girl to approach, and Owen only started slightly when his princess tugged on his shirt sleeve.

“Is everything alright, Daddy?” Colleen asked.  Beaming in that particular way that was reserved for his little’uns, he lifted her onto his lap and cuddled her as she swung her feet up onto Margaret’s lap.

“It is indeed, sweetheart,” Owen said, exchanging a look with Margaret that at last spoke to the breadth of possibility. That was theirs, and theirs alone. “Everything is alright.”

\-------------------------

The heat was almost unbearable, but by God it was a beautiful day.

One sweltering Saturday in August 1931, Niamh and Brendan took the children to the Sts. Peter & Paul church faire down near the banks of the Mississippi. Early that same morning, Emmett and Hana drove Owen and Margaret outside the city; they drove until mid-day, stopping for rest in the tiny town of Belle. It was quiet, green, and quite lovely. The man who sold them lemonade at the general store told them where they could find the justice of the peace.

The justice was quite old, at least eighty, but with an exceedingly kind face. When they explained that though they were struggling at the moment, they'd realized they loved each other more than ever and had decided to "renew their vows", the justice's wife swooned and thought it was terribly romantic.

Margaret had briefly fretted over the notion of the ceremony not being Catholic, until she allowed herself to step back and consider just how much about this situation had not been ideal for years. At the end of the day, the only real paramount concern was that she didn't want to go one more day without honestly being able to call him her husband.

Emmett and Hana were their witnesses. There was no money for a new ring, so Owen carried the filigree ring he'd bought Margaret for her birthday five years earlier in his pocket all morning until it was time to slip it on her again. His hands trembled, and his voice caught when he said. "I do."

Because it said so on their identification, the justice that morning had re-married the Murphys of Branch Street, St. Louis.  His ledger, however, had been a bit dusty and worn — clearly brought out only as a necessity and quickly forgotten again. After exchanging a glance and a pair of besotted smiles, the newlyweds threw caution to the wind and signed the ledger, _Mr. & Mrs. Owen and Margaret Sleater_.

 


End file.
